Liberal, Libertario, Libertino

Primeiro parágrafo de uma resenha literária de um novo livro sobre Kafka:

Literary criticism is a pile of decomposing shit – but I mean that in a good way. Think of it as the compacted leavings of an author, those words which garner so much attention it’s as if they give off a stink. Certain people are drawn to these words in a basic, indescribable, almost microbial way. They latch themselves onto the leavings. They can’t get enough of the words. To justify this attraction, they transform an obsession into a viable way to waste their time. They call each other profound thinkers – one becomes an eminent critic, another takes it upon himself to become a Kafka guru on the Internet. And so these critics and gurus do their best to explain themselves by explaining what they’re attracted to. Theories incubate; disagreements fester. What’s important about the author is his relationship with his father, or maybe it’s his religious sensibility, or maybe it’s his political situation as a representative of a oppressed minority. Given enough time, an entire ecosystem evolves around a few boxes of moldy documents; ideas and discussions and entire careers. It’s a lively field, benefiting both the shrewd and the imaginative, but as the arguments grow, the leavings dissolve, until critical discussion expands to the point of infinity or absurdity, whichever comes first. Perpetual essays can be gratifying, and they can certainly stimulate the mind, but sometimes the original intent becomes lost. Art becomes the handmaiden of theory.